


Fields of Asphodel

by Abraxas



Series: Nemesis [4]
Category: The Closer
Genre: Gen, General
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 08:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abraxas/pseuds/Abraxas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow-up to 'Acheron'. Brenda makes the time for some literary explorations - and finds time is something she has more of than she realised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fields of Asphodel

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER: **I DO NOT OWN _THE CLOSER_ OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS - I'M JUST PLAYING WITH THEM.
> 
> **AUTHOR NOTE:** This is the latest instalment of what appears to be the ongoing series that started with 'Nemesis' - and the bulk of this fic will makesno sense unless you have read the stories that precede it. It's still Brenda-and-Flynn-as-friends. More or less. Ish.

_1\. In a Sentimental Mood_

There is, she thinks, something that ought to be pleasant about the rows of new books lined up on the shelves; their angular regularity speaks of order and calm. In her they instigate the irrational desire to pull them all down. She likes second-hand bookstores, the ones with the musty smell of old paper and dust, with all the worn volumes arranged in glorious disorder.

When she has the time to go into them, which she doesn't.

Bookshops should not come with blazing lights, cafés and the latest offerings from the album charts, but this is convenient and the only one she knows of. Brenda pulls books off the shelves hopefully, hopelessly, not quite sure of what it is she's looking for or even how to find it.

'Can I help you?'

She starts slightly, turning, peering at the young slim face smiling into hers. She takes off her glasses, blinking her eyes into focus. It's a nice face; he looks eager, which is always a good sign in a store assistant, she thinks.

'Yes, thank-you. Hello. I'm looking for a book.'

His smile widens.

'Yes, obviously I'm looking for a book. I, I just don't know which one it is. It's Raymond Chandler' -she gestures to the seemingly endless line that bear his name in crisp white letters- 'but I didn't realise that he'd written that much.'

His face twists in sympathy, matching her pained expression. 'Uh, do you know what it's about?'

'The wind. That's all I know. The Santa Ana blowing through the city...'

'_Red Wind_.' He beams at her. 'It's one of the short stories. It has, like, a totally famous opening.'

If it's so famous, she thinks irritably, how come I've never heard of it? She forces a smile. 'Do you have a copy of that?'

'Oh yeah!' Slender fingers wander across the books; long, spatulated ends - a musician's fingers, possibly. He looks like he'd be a musician. The boy - he's a young man but she can't think of him as anything than a boy - pulls out a volume, upsetting the artful precision of the shelves. A bright cover, purple and yellow and jagged black shapes. _Trouble is My Business_, the title tells her.

Knowing Flynn, that seems fitting.

She opens the book, rifling through the pages, oblivious to the clerk who still hovers at her elbow; only when it becomes apparent, even to him, that what little attention she had bestowed on him has been revoked does he slip away. Brenda holds the pages wide, cracking the spine, her eyes following the lines of text; and as she reads she hears the words in a voice that does not belong to her.

_'There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch...'_

She closes it again, makes her way to the counter. It's the same boy - young man - and he smiles at her again.

'Did you find everything you were looking for?'

She pauses before answering. 'I think so.'

_2\. The Man I Love_

Her reading material these days consists mainly of pathology reports, criminal record files and the interminable memos from Pope's office. Admittedly, the last she doesn't actually read, just puts then somewhere out of sight. She remembers reading a book as something that she used to enjoy doing, when she used to have the time. But over the next few days and nights, in the quiet moments, she plunges into this wordscape of neon and shadow.

It is a world both strange and strangely familiar.

Sitting up against the pillows, the book balanced on her knees, then Fritz wanders past, his skin gleaming damply from the shower. He stops and looks at her.

'Brenda Leigh Johnson taking the time to read a book.'

She smiles vaguely. He pads across to her; the bed dips under his weight when he sits on the edge; she watches the light catch the water droplets clinging to his hair. Fritz takes the book from her hands, reads the cover and his eyebrows rise.

'Philip Marlowe, huh?'

He lapses into his Humphrey Bogart impression and it makes her laugh; or rather, she makes herself laugh. It pleases him, and she is pleased that he is pleased.

But when she slips the book back into the safe recesses of her bag she feels as though she has somehow betrayed something secret.

_3\. I Love a Rainy Night_

The windows are black, occasional bursts of raindrops rattling against the glass like handfuls of grit. Inside, in the warm cocoon of her office that always feels more like a home than anywhere else, it is safe, cosy. The storm raging outside is almost enjoyable when it is heard but does not have to be endured. She's always enjoyed the sharp crack against closed windows. Some managed to leave before the rain; those who were not so fortunate have made their way back into the Murder Room, teasing and commiserating with one another.

Flynn is one of the unfortunates. And he is laughing. His face is glowing. Sometimes she wonders if she knows him at all, and others she thinks that she knows him too well.

He peels off his jacket, trading a joke with Sanchez while he shakes it out, hangs it over the back of his chair, then heads towards her office.

'Hey, Chief.' His face is still alight, eyes dancing.

Brenda smiles. 'Lieutenant.'

'We're getting some take-out - you want anything?'

She shakes her head. 'No, thank-you.'

His hair is damp, darkened by the rain, slicked back from his forehead; it gives him an old-fashioned look.

'How bad is it out there?'

He considers it, his head tilting. 'You might be able to see a hand in front of your face, but I wouldn't bet on it.'

Tao and Buzz have joined Sanchez. They sit clustered near the empty coffee pots in the glow of desk lamps, forgoing the intrusive glare of the overhead strip-lighting. Flynn glances at them through the glass of her little panopticon and rolls his eyes good humouredly.

'We're thinking of starting a campfire, getting out a guitar and having a few verses of _Kumbaya_.' He shrugs, sardonic. 'If you're interested.'

'That does sound tempting, Lieutenant,' she says and allows herself a small smile. 'But I want to finish this book.'

He nods slightly then stops when she holds it up; one hand moves, questioning, the fingers twitching. She wonders if he can see the flush spreading across her cheeks or if the dimness is saving her.

'I thought I'd see what all the fuss is about.' She puts it on the desk, face-down to mark her place.

His hands go into his pockets and he takes a step forward. 'And?'

'It's good, I like it. I like him.' Marlowe, a difficult man, hardened, but with a good heart. She looks at Flynn. She thinks he is smiling but she can't quite tell; that lack of certainty is unfamiliar - strange but not unsettling. His eyes are opaque, unreadable. 'I like the way it's written. The prose style.'

His head moves slightly, a nod. 'It's like poetry. Without actually being poetry,' he adds.

'Heaven forbid.'

The corners of his mouth turn upward a little.

'You should try _The Long Goodbye_.'

'Is that another Raymond Chandler?'

'One of the novels.'

'What's it about?'

There is pause while he decides how to answer. 'Murder,' he says eventually. 'I suppose it's also about love. You know, actual love. The type that doesn't last.'

She sits back in her chair. 'You don't really believe that.'

His shoulders move up, hold for a second, lower again. 'I'm just going by experience; and I haven't seen anything yet that makes me think anything different. It's, uh, empirical evidence.' He shrugs again. 'Of course, I could be wrong. I have been wrong before.'

She can feel his eyes on her, taking in the lines of her face.

'Are you sure you don't want anything, Chief?'

Her mouth is dry. She moistens it, pulling her lower lip between her teeth before answering. 'I'm fine, thank-you, Lieutenant.'

He is still for a moment. 'Okay.' His lips curve. 'But if you change your mind, you know where to find us.'

They look a happy group, she thinks, when she looks out at them a little later. Laughter filters through now and then, muffled yet distinct.

There are only a few pages left but the impatience she usually feels for resolution is subsumed by the desire to make this last - just a little longer, at least. She closes the book, puts it back in her bag and goes out into the Murder Room. Heads turn as she approaches and they look so pleased that she's joined them. They rearrange themselves, furniture grating against the floor as they move around. She slips into the gap created for her, sitting on the desk beside Flynn.

'No singing yet, Lieutenant? she murmurs.

He turns to her. 'We're saving it for later, Chief - you never know how long we'll be here.'

The rain still rattles against the windows and the world seems to have shrunk to just the soft pools of light in this enclosed space. Time hasn't stopped but it seems slower, of less importance, in these dim, quiet hours. For now it's almost possible to pretend that the darkness outside doesn't exist. She feels content, she realises, deeply and completely, in this place and at this moment. Perhaps it shows, she thinks: she becomes aware of being watched, of eyes discreet but keen studying her face. She turns slightly, finds Flynn's dark eyes. They watch each other for a moment - another of these slowed, strangely endless moments - before he looks away. She props her chin on her hand, seemingly listening to the story Tao is telling with relish, but, glancing sideways, she keeps her gaze on Flynn, and he smiles.

****

FIN


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